You Don't Always Forget With Time
by D-Ro2593
Summary: It's been ten years since Project Purity and the Lone Wanderer is reminiscing about his past and a certain Vault Dweller he left behind. Who knows, he might even venture back to get her despite his exile. LW X Amata, Rated for language.
1. A History Lesson

Disclaimer: I do not own Fallout 3...there I said it.

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Ten years.

It's been ten years since I've been forced out of the safety and security of Vault 101. It's been ten long, hard years since I've been forced into a post-apocalyptic nightmare from which I can never wake. Ten years since I've even eaten a rad-free meal. Ten years since the most dangerous thing I had to deal with was a trio of obnoxious greasers and the occasional radroach. It's been ten years since I'd truly had a peaceful night's sleep, and most importantly, it's been ten years since I've last laid eyes on _her_...

Sorry...got a little ahead of myself there. I guess a little history lesson is in order before I start rambling on about things that you wouldn't have any clue in the slightest about.

You see, around 210 years ago now, there was a lengthy war between Communist China and the good ol' capitalist U,S, of A. Looking through the endless amounts of bullshit propaganda spewed by both parties, it was obvious that resources were running out and the two superpowers of the world were fighting tooth and nail over what was left.

Nobody was gaining an edge over the other as China occupied Alaska only to have the US annex Canada and violently oust the commies off of 'American' soil. However, this victory came at the cost of heavy casualties at the tune of well over a thousand American soldiers. Both sides were getting desperate and decided to unleash their ultimate weapons...

To this day, nobody knows which side launched their nuclear warheads first but the results more than speak for themselves.

Everything that wasn't mutated by the radiation was destroyed.

And when I say 'everything was destroyed,' I mean that everything was completely and utterly destroyed. Cars, houses, bridges, roads, offices, skyscrapers, Old Lady Ming's little grocery store at the corner – EVERYTHING was blown to fucking oblivion.

All that remained was twisted, blackened and burnt remains to serve as permanent reminders of humanity's greatest fuck-up to those lucky enough to find some way to survive. Hell, the only way that I could think of how anyone survived the nuclear hailstorm was by mutation or by somehow finding their way into a Vault.

Ah, the Vaults...home sweet home. The Vault-Tek Vault was designed by Vault-Tek industries as a self-sustaining and self-sufficient underground fallout shelter. Sealed by 20-ton metal doors, Vaults were built all around the country just in case the war went nuclear like it did. Whoever came up with that idea would've deserved the biggest goddamn raise humanly possible because when the bombs fell and everything was blown to high hell, the Vaults worked exactly as they were designed to and kept everyone lucky enough to be inside one safe and radiation free.

As the years passed and the radiation gradually decreased into non-lethal levels, people began to venture out of the Vaults and started trying to rebuild something resembling civilization in their now shattered world.

One Vault never opened. This was the Vault I came from – Vault 101.

I was born there, raised there, and I expected to live my life and die there. The Overseer (tyrannical dickhead in charge of the Vault), had a policy where the residents of Vault 101 were never to leave. He made us start working at the age of ten and we didn't stop until the day we died. It was hellish but at least it was safe from the radioactive horrors we were told was waiting outside of the Vault.

In the Vault it was just me and my dad, James. My mother died giving birth to me and left my dad to try and raise a newborn baby boy alone. My dad was the Vault doctor and for all intents and purposes, expected me to follow in his footsteps and become a doctor as well. At the time I wasn't patient enough to take medicine seriously, so aside from learning intermediate level first aid from Dad, I strayed away from it. While he never showed or actually admitted it, he was deeply hurt by my rejection of his chosen profession and was never the same towards me. He became more brisk in his speaking to me and started to distance himself from me. While I could still sense that he cared for me, he just seemed to lose interest and left me to my own devices.

It broke my heart to see my dad's apparent disowning of me and it pretty much left me all alone in the monotonous safety of the Vault. I wandered aimlessly around the Vault, completing my duties with no clue as to what to do. I was lost with no guidance and no friends to help me. If it wasn't for _her_ I don't know how my life would've turned out...

_Her_ name is Amata Almodovar. Or was...I honestly don't know how well she's fared in these last ten years. For all I know she could be...no. I won't think that – I refuse to think that!

I've seen (and caused) a lot of death in my life, and though I have been largely desensitized to the horrors of it due to the harshness of the Capital Wasteland, the thought of Amata dead...it hurts me more than words could ever describe.

Amata...just saying her name brings back a tidal wave of memory. A surprise birthday party she threw me when we were ten...me saving her from the Vault's resident gang when we were sixteen...endless conversations and hours spent together... She always seemed to know the right things to say to me in my emotional funks after my dad's apparent rejection of me, and her laugh and smile were just infectious. She had the type of personality where she made friends everywhere she went just by being herself and always had a joyous glow to her whenever I saw her.

She was my best friend – my only friend actually – and I would've...no...**would** do anything for her and all it would take is a simple request from her beautiful lips. It didn't matter to me that she was the Overseer's daughter. As long as I had her, I could deal with the disdain of the Overseer and having nobody else in all of the Vault. I was content.

But of course, everything had to get fucked up.

It was the day of my nineteenth birthday when Amata shook me from a pleasant dream (which of course was about her). She told me that my dad escaped the Vault.

What. The. Fuck.

To make things worse, she told me that her dickhead father put the Vault on lockdown and killed my dad's assistant and was after me next. On top of that, there was a massive infestation of radroaches that was overwhelming our inept security force and had killed a good number of Vault residents.

I was only mildly upset upon hearing of the deaths of Jonas and the others (by that point, I cared very little about the people in the Vault other than Amata and my dad...to an extent), but hearing that there was a hit out on your life is never incredibly pleasant. Thankfully, Amata – as always – had a plan. She told me that she knew of a secret tunnel that led to the "front door" through her father's office. Through all of the confusion, she figured that I could slip out of the Vault without anyone noticing. After a quick assurance that I would be safe and would try to meet her in front of the blast doors, I left her with her father's gun and started towards the door.

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A/N - My first chapter of my first story...well, tell me what you think and if I should continue. Don't hold anything back in the reviews, I can take it. Just leave some kind of feedback for me.


	2. The Red Haze

Disclaimer: Still don't own Fallout 3 so don't sue me.

**A/N ****–** In regards to the Lone Wanderer, I'm going to leave most details about him vague so that people can insert their own characters into the story. It annoys me when I'm reading a Fallout story thinking about my character and then find out it's about some neutral Asian ninja or some evil White assassin, when my guy was a saintly (albeit violent) Black Rambo type of guy – with glasses – but that's besides the point. So without further ado, here's chapter two. (Heheh...I rhymed...)

**Edit 3/20/10 - **No more Kill Bill (*bleep*) and I corrected the pistol type. Thanks to **Agent 94** for poining it out...

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Sneaking out of the Vault was nowhere near as easy as Amata made it seem.

When she told me that the place was on lockdown, I thought that she meant that there was just a few more security guards patrolling the corridors than usual. I was wrong. The place was trying to seal itself up tighter than a 200 year old freeze-dried Salisbury steak. Ominous red lights were flashing, the alarms were blaring, and everywhere I looked, there was a combination of radroaches, locked doors, hostile security guards and dead Vault residents.

The radroaches were no problem since I've been hunting them with Amata ever since my dad gave me that BB-gun when I was ten (I even killed a few bare-handed while she used the gun), and the locked doors weren't much of a challenge either thanks to the bobby pins Amata gave me before she left my room earlier. But trying to get past nervous and undisciplined security guards with guns that were shooting off at the tiniest shadows that looked to be moving, proved to be a bit tricky. And even though I didn't care much for the Vault residents, it was still very traumatic to see the prone, lifeless bodies of people that I had lived with for nineteen years.

By some divine stroke of luck, I managed to make it past most of the security guards without getting shot or seen, (though I did get a bit singed from the Vault's Mr. Handy robot, Andy, and his flamethrower).

I was almost home free as I crept my way down the corridor leading to the Overseer's office when I looked into a window to my left. I saw something I never – ever – thought I'd see nor do I ever want to see again. The Overseer and Security Officer Mack were torturing Amata. She was tied to a chair and had a cut on the left side of her lip as well as several bruises on her face and neck. The Overseer was torturing his own daughter and my best friend.

Oh hell to the mother fuckin' no!

"Where is he Amata? Where's your little friend that you seem to love being around instead of your loving father?" Questioned the Overseer in an eerily calm voice that showed none of the severity of the situation.

"I don't know! I haven't seen him all day!" Pleaded Amata, but her pleas were rewarded with Officer Mack brutally slapping her across the side of her face. I tensed up in shock and trembled with more rage than I had ever felt in my entire life.

"Amata, you know I take no pleasure in this..." continued the Overseer in the same deceptively calm voice, "But the safety of the Vault must be preserved!" The Overseer paused then turned to Amata with a seemingly benign smile...but I knew better, "And what's more, why did we find you with this?" The Overseer reached over to a table and picked up a 10mm pistol.

It was the same 10mm that Amata stole from her father and tried to give to me but I made her keep it to hopefully make sure she stayed safe...Talk about plans backfiring...

"I-I took it out of your room to use against the radroaches...I was scared"

"Liar!" This time the Overseer hit Amata himself and my rage intensified. "I've seen you hunting those beasts with that hooligan friend of yours! On many occasions you both were killing them with your bare hands!" Shit, how'd he know about that? "Don't you start going on and tell me that you could possibly be afraid of _radroaches_." He spat out the word 'radroaches' with extreme amounts of contempt and disgust, "Now, **TELL ME THE TRUTH!**"

By this point I was besides myself with rage and could stand to hear no more. They had hit Amata not once but **twice** in my presence, and who knows how many times they had hit her before I got there! A red haze that would soon become very familiar fell over my eyes and my mind went blank. All I could think about at that moment was how nicely the Overseer's and Officer Mack's brains would look splattered against the walls...and how nice it would be if I put them there...

Before I knew or could even think about it, I had rushed into the room and repeatedly smashed the nearest blunt object I could find into both Officer Mack's and the Overseer's grill pieces. I barely noticed the highly audible cracks that sounded as whatever I was holding made contact with their disgusting faces. Nor did I notice the rapidly growing puddles of blood forming around their twitching bodies on the ground... All I could think of was how I had to make sure that Amata was safe and how the bastards who hurt her had to pay...dearly...

The haze gradually died down and I found myself standing in a blood covered room with two completely still bodies lying haphazardly in the corners. I was holding the twisted remains of a metal pipe that appeared to have been ripped from the wall behind me. I looked towards the still tied Amata and saw her staring at me with an incredulous mixture of shock and fear etched throughout her face. This was not right. Amata should never look at me with such fear in those beautiful brown eyes...they should only contain laughter and happiness when I look into them, not fear!

I went to approach her and she made an involuntary twitch away from me. The entire time that it took me to untie her, she averted her eyes from mine and tried not to allow me to touch her any more than was necessary for me to free her.

The moment I undid the last knot, Amata reared back and floored me with a devastating right hook that I never saw coming.

She stood over my bloodied and bewildered body with pure white hot rage seeping through her pores and bellowed at the top of her lungs, "YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO KILL HIM! REGARDLESS OF WHATEVER PROBLEMS YOU HAVE WITH YOUR FATHER, THAT DOESN'T MEAN THAT I HATED MINE TOO!"

Saying that I was surprised would be an understatement. Not only by the ferocity of the hook that had my left cheek throbbing and trickling blood, but I had just saved her from being tortured by two psychopaths who looked as if they were ready to kill her and this is the thanks I get?!

Before I could even open my mouth to try and calm my irate best friend, she slapped me as hard as she could across the _right_ side of my face and then sprinted out of the room sobbing.

To this very day, I swear that as she ran out of the room, I heard her choke out between sobs to no one in particular, "I thought you were my best friend...how could you kill my father?"

And then she was gone.

After awhile my vision finally came into focus and I just sat there in that strange mixture of the Overseer's, Officer Mack's, Amata's and my own blood, rubbing both sides of my throbbing face with only one thought running through my mind:

"What the fuck did I do and what in the hell am I going to do now?"

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**A/N**** – **So there's chapter two, what do you think? This is my first time writing dialogue so tell me what I can do to improve because I know that that was less than perfect. By the way, don't always expect such quick updates because the mood for me to write comes and goes as it pleases...I have no control over it and after seeing the first reviews, favorites, and story alert adds, I just had to work chapter two. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated so please leave a review and help a young writer improve. Until next time...


	3. Musings Interrupted

Disclaimer: Don't own Fallout 3...No copyright claims please...

A/N: After negative feedback, the Kill Bill *(beep)* is gone...I'll just keep him nameless. Oh, and sorry for the wait...I got Mass Effect 2 and then Final Fantasy XIII back to back. Needless to say, when combined with school and life in general, my time has been kinda occupied...So, without further ado here's chapter 3.

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Amata didn't meet me at the blast door like she said she would.

I stood there waiting for a half-hour and only left when I could hear the guards finally making their way to the Vault door. I had waited until I had very nearly squandered my only chance to leave, but I made it through the door literally dodging bullets.

I relished the fact that I was finally leaving the stagnancy and the barely suppressed hatred of my now former home, but it broke my heart to leave with things the way they were between Amata and me. Unfortunately for me, life sometimes chooses to be an evil spiteful bitch and I had no choice in that matter.

So it was with a heart full of sadness and regret that I walked to the end of the dark and humid cavern in which Vault 101 was hidden while the cowardly guards hastily sealed the door behind me with an earsplitting screech.

It was only with the slightest of pauses that I opened the flimsy wooden gate that led into the blinding light of the Capital Wasteland.

That was ten years ago.

I had walked out into the barren, lifeless and all too dusty Capital Wasteland like an aimless child fresh out of the womb. I knew virtually nothing about survival in the Wastes and _absolutely_ nothing about the way things operate out here (I mean, who would guess that fucking **Nuka-Cola** **bottlecaps **is the currency in this shithole?!).

Lucky for me, I'm much more **i**ntelligent than most people ever gave me credit for being in the Vault, and I've always been highly **p**erceptive to my environment and the people around me. I figured the basics of how to keep myself alive out here within the first few hours of leaving, (in other words right after my first experience with those goddamn raiders – I mean who uses a school as a criminal hideout?! Fuckin' cunts...), and I figured how most people operated out here within the first week.

Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months very rapidly out here and with every day that passed, I found myself quickly adapting to the harshness of the Wastes.

I became a schemer out of necessity to combat assholes like Colin Moriarty who prey on the weak and stupid.

Much to his pockets' chagrin.

My formally detached attitude combined with that lovely red haze that dispatched the Overseer and his little bitch who hit **my **Amata (...since when has she been mine..?), made me a ruthlessly efficient fighter when prompted. I even learned different uses for that haze ranging from giving me short but intense bursts of enhanced strength to temporarily increasing my reaction time to the point where it appears that time has stopped just for me...ain't I lucky?

But in all seriousness, after awhile my quick progression started to scare me. I went from a moody and what certain girls, (or in this case _girl_), would call angsty young man to an honest to goodness killer – and a damn good one at that.

But what scared me the most...was that I liked the changes...

Being out here in this frantic 'kill or be killed' environment that is the Capital Wasteland has made me the happiest I've been since my dad pretty much disowned me. All of the pent up tension and stress that I've come to accept as a normal part of my life over the years just melts away with every fistfight with an asshole thinking that they can take advantage of a gullible vault dweller and every firefight with a Raider squad or with some of those those big ass Super Mutant fuckwads.

The fear of my changes gradually dissolved into nothingness as I realized that not worrying about them made staying alive that much easier...and killing those who deserve it that much more fun...

Because of my – for lack of a better term – 'skills,' I've made quite a name for myself in this hellhole. I won't get into the specifics, but let's just say that the tales of my exploits are told in every single irradiated corner of the Wastes and my actions have given me many different meanings to the citizens of this fine dust heap.

Some misguided fools treat me as if I am their **Messiah** like I were a symbol of all that is good in our little fucked up world, while idiots of another kind see me as evil incarnate – a true **Devil** in human form.

What a load of bullshit.

One of the most important things that I've learned during my relatively short existence is that you can't let other people define who you are. Once you do that, you're bound to living up to their expectations of you and can never make any decisions of your own without thinking about whether or not your decision will sit well with whatever the asshole in question expects of you.

It is for this reason that I don't let other people define me. **I** define who I am, **I** shape my own future, and**I** am the master of my own destiny.

My father tried to make me his little scientific/medical prodigy, but I refused to humor my father at the sake of my sanity, (I probably would've gone batshit insane if I was forever stuck with medicine as my career – mercenary work and killing the foul as a Regulator keeps me plenty sane, happy and very well paid, thank you very much).

My tendency to occasionally help people if I have the means (and quite frankly nothing better to do) caused the Wastes to try to make me their hero, but I refused to devote all of my time to their problems while I still had so many of my own.

Besides, I'm no hero...I kill people. For a living. And I'm sure that I'm pretty cool with it. Last I checked, heroes aren't supposed to kill and like it...

So when I refused to be their hero – out of what they perceived as selfishness but I defined as ensuring my own survival in this never ending shitstorm called life – they tried to make me their big, bad villain.

However distant my father had been to me, he always tried his best to raise me 'right' and the noble values he raised me with forced me to adamantly refuse that definition. So what did that leave me as in the eyes of the scraggly, uneducated populace?

Frankly I didn't (and still don't) give two shakes of a giant mole rat's left nutsack as to what the Wastes thinks of me.

When it comes to me, my opinion is the only one that really matters in the end...or at least it's been that way for the last ten years...The point is that ever since I've left the Vault, the only thing that on my mind has been survival(...and her).

Not that I think about her often that is...I mean I **do** think about her but it's not as if I spend **every** waking moment with her on my mind...I mean sometimes late at night I might...nonono, no nothing like that...not that the thought repulses me or anything...quite the opposite really...I wonder what she looks like now...I wonder if that birthmark way up on the back of her thigh is still there...she turned about 20 different shades of red when I saw it during the Vault swimming lessons...yeah, I bet she...**WAIT, **_**WAY**_** OFF TOPIC HERE!!!**

I think I was talking about the Wastes and myself here. I mean this is **my** grand introspective narrative and it's supposed to be about me and not Ms. Almodovar...or is it _Mrs. _now? **GODDAMN IT!** **NOW I'M MAKING MYSELF LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT!**

Listen, it's been ten years since I've spoken to Amata – hell, it's been ten years since I've even seen or heard from anyone in the Vault (with the exception of Butch whom I 'rescued' from drinking himself into a permanent stupor in Rivet City...the ungrateful bastard).

Butch – rather drunkenly – told me that Amata took over as Overseer and once she managed to restore order after my escape she slowly started sending survey teams out to check the surrounding areas for resources and human settlements – maybe two or three a month, every month.

He said it was some kind of long term plan to get the people of the Vault used to interactions with people outside of their little hidey-hole. He volunteered to be on one of those teams and just didn't go back. What baffled me the most was how I'd never – not once – run into any of those teams in all my years out here. It blew my mind that the Vault even opened but the fact that Amata was the Overseer was almost too much for me to handle...

Ungrateful bastards aside, why would I still be pining for someone whom I've had absolutely zero contact with for ten years?! I mean Butch did give me some info about what happened after I left the Vault, but c'mon...there's got to be a cut-off where you can start to forget...right?

_Fuck._

This is driving me insane. I've got to find out what happened to her. I haven't thought of her for...damn it, that cliché won't even work – I was just thinking about her last night.

_**Fuck.**_

You know what, Moira can wait a few more weeks for these memoirs...I've got to see her again. Ten years or not, I'm going back. She may or may not still hate me for killing her father during my daring and valiant escape but frankly, I don't give a damn.

Amata was the only one who ever showed me kindness in my life. She was the only one who gave a damn about me in the Vault and she always stuck by my side...I have to get her back...and God help whoever tries to get in my way.

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A/N: Yeah...um...what do people usually say at the end of chapters? Oh yeah, please review!


	4. Reality

You Don't Always Forget With Time - Fallout 3

Chapter 4 - Reality

A/N - Um...long time no hear from, huh? I'm going to be honest, I never thought that I'd come back to this story. In fact, I'm surprised that I'm even uploading this but I'm just going through some of my files and uploading things that seem mostly finished. This chapter was done and just sitting there...gathering dust. I had to post it. This doesn't mean that I'll get regular with the updates but I remember that I had gotten back into Fallout 3 a while back and started writing after re-reading my old chapters. Call me sentimental but this was my first story on the site and I just want to add this to it once it was done. So...yeah. Hope you like it.

-o0o-

The Lone Wanderer shut off the recording program on his Pip-Boy and immediately set himself into motion. With an almost singleminded determination, he went about the self made dwelling that he calls home and began arming himself for the Wastes. A worn but well cared for suit of reinforced leather armor was taken out of a locker and adorned with practiced ease. It was his own invention made to offer more protection than the standard leather armor found in the Wasteland while remaining lighter and easier to move about in than Combat armor. On top of it, the Wanderer put on the trademark duster of the Regulators made unique by the dull blue and yellow "101" stitched on both the left side of the jacket near his chest and again on the shoulder of his right arm.

As much as he claims not to care about his former home, the Vault has become an irreplaceable part of his identity. The Wanderer could not imagine leaving any of his many safe houses scattered across the Capitol Wasteland without acknowledgement of it.

Properly clothed and armored, he moves to another nearby locker to collect the weapons he would be taking with him on this journey. After a brief moment of hesitation, the Wanderer decides to take only two guns and a combat knife holstered in his right boot. Slung across his shoulders goes a modified Chinese Assault Rifle repaired to nearly pristine condition and outfitted with a scavenged sniper rifle scope and a traditional iron sight moved on the barrel on a forty-five degree angle. This allows for accuracy at both long and close range and all he has to do is tilt the gun to switch his sighting. The Wanderer is very proud of his work with this gun and is sure that there is none like it in all of this post apocalyptic world.

Or at least, in the one he knows.

The Wanderer has seen enough to know that there are some things so above his comprehension that anything he creates in his spare time could have a better somewhere in some time. His experiences in that Brotherhood Outcast combat simulation, during the charge to retake Project Purity and Tranquility Lane were prime examples in his mind. Even though it was the most relevant example, the Wanderer pointedly did not want to think about the Mothership. That place was horrendous even for him.

For his second weapon, the Wanderer selected a simple scoped magnum, unique only in its near pristine condition. In all honesty, this could be said of every weapon the Wanderer owns. Repairing and maintaining all of his weapons is something he does often and is one of the primary ways that he spends his downtime. The magnum is placed in a holster on his hip.

After grabbing a sizable amount of ammunition, the Wanderer turns and leaves out his front door, muttering incoherently to himself all the while. Now that he is armed and armored, doubts about his decision start to plague him. Why go back to the Vault that kicked him out? It's clear that they have nothing but contempt for him. Amata was the only one who didn't and that went up in smoke the moment he killed Alphonse. Besides, Amata has likely long since forgotten him. Ten years is a long time.

But he hasn't forgotten her. He couldn't forget his only childhood friend and quite frankly the only woman he's ever loved so easily. Of course, there have been others since he left the Vault. Some of those relationships were more serious than others but none of them really worked out. Jenny Stahl, Lucy West, Sarah Lyons, that girl Cherry he escorted to Rivet City, Nova...hell, even Bittercup once or twice when she got a few years older and filled out a bit. The Wanderer truly made an effort to move on with his life but they all either wanted something that he couldn't give or it was the other way around.

The Wanderer harbors no ill will towards any of the women he's been with since he's been in the Wastes and still counts them all among his friends. Sometimes with occasional benefits. But it just wasn't the same as what he had with Amata. Even if they never slept with each other, the Wanderer just couldn't forget how perfectly matched their personalities were to each other. They balanced each other out and had such an easy companionship that he has never experienced before or since. Even the deluge of followers that he's amassed over the years did not fill the void that Amata's absence left in his heart.

Not that it's any of your goddamn business, of course.

That's what the Wander would say if presented with any of these observations. Contrary to popular belief, the Lone Wanderer is not a master wordsmith and he never had been. Amata was the one who could talk them out of anything in the Vault, not him. His charisma was rooted more so in his force of personality than in his ability to turn a phrase. Threatening people was more of the Wanderer's style though he has shown himself to be capable of diplomacy in extreme circumstances.

The Wanderer will always express himself in the most direct and honest way that he can in nearly every situation. He tends to struggle with complex emotions and wears his heart boldly on his sleeve whether he knows it or not. So all of this speculation is just that: speculation. When the Wanderer figures out why he feels compelled to do something, he'll let you know. No sooner and no later.

A person well versed in the man's history could likely figure out why he does some of the things that he does, but there are very few of those people still alive to tell you. Even now, I am just a figment of the Wanderer's mind objectively telling his last story with as little bias as possible. In fact, I'd be most interested in how you came across this account as I am buried deep within the Wanderer's subconscious and should be inaccessible - even to him.

But that could wait, I suppose.

Meanwhile, the Lone Wanderer had exited the safe house and began walking around to the side of the small two story shack to an attached shed like structure. It is here that the Wanderer unveils one of the true treasures of the Capitol Wasteland: a working motorcycle.

It had taken him the better part of two years to get it working and it constantly needs repairs, but the Wanderer had a truly impressive knack for fixing things. He also had plenty of time on his hands for the job as he did nothing if he didn't want to do it. He moved at his own pace and can be more stubborn than an angry brahmin at times. He had simply set his mind to fixing up one of the many bikes littered across the Wasteland one day and just worked on it until it was done. The end result is what is likely the only operable land vehicle in the entire Capitol Wasteland. If he was proud of his rifle, then the Wanderer absolutely loved his bike.

Opening a small hatch on the back of the vehicle, the wanderer pulls out a faded white bandana and a relatively clean pair of biker goggles. He puts the bandana on covering the entire top of his head followed by the goggles over his eyes before hopping on his bike and starting the ignition. With a roar that could be heard for miles, the ancient machine comes to life and the Wanderer quickly speeds off in the general direction of Megaton and Vault 101.

During the entire ride, the Wanderer's ceaseless mutterings did not stop. There was a reason why he had never gone back to the Vault before now and those reasons were all rushing to the forefront of his mind. Those fuckers hated him and blamed him for all the people who died when he made his escape. Hell, he killed their Overseer. There's no way in hell they would just let him in, even if all he wanted to do was see Amata. He had less than no interest in the Vault other than her at this point in his life and the rest of the inhabitants of Vault 101 could all collectively go fuck themselves for all the Wanderer could care. However, the bottom line remains that it was unlikely that he would ever be let back in.

Normally the familiar thoughts would stop him in his tracks and force him to turn around out of sheer logic. They wouldn't let him in and since he wouldn't try and force his way in, there was no point in even attempting it. But it didn't happen today. Today, the Wanderer would finally pick up his balls and face Amata some way or another. Even if she would never look at him the same way he had always looked at her, the man just wanted his friend back. If that was all he'd get, then he'd take it. He wouldn't push for more but he would push a bit to get the chance to talk to her. The funny thing about it all was that all it took was Moira's persistence in getting him to record a set of memoirs to reignite his desire to reconnect with his childhood friend and crush.

He had to chuckle a bit at that thought. Moira was such a sweet woman and he truly has become fond of her over the years. He would never admit it but he finds her antics to be beyond cute. The Wanderer had even tried to make a pass at her years ago but she was so oblivious about the whole thing that it all but extinguished his desire to bed her. It felt like he would be taking advantage of the woman and he had no desire to ever harm her. Instead, the Wanderer took on a sort of brotherly role in her life and always made sure she was alright...and that she didn't blow Megaton up with her crazy experiments. When she asked him to record a memoir of sorts for a book she was writing on prominent wasteland figures he couldn't say no. He honestly had nothing better to do and this was infinitely easier than the last book he helped her with.

Motorcycle rumbling, the Wanderer passed Megaton in a cloud of dust and followed the pre-war roads all the way up through Springvale. He passed the formerly raider filled school that he cleared out years ago and carefully rode his way up the hill he knew led to the hidden entrance of Vault 101. A wave of nostalgia hit the Wanderer as he parked his ride near the scenic overlook that stood just outside the door. He took his goggles off and looked out to the crumbling ruins of what was once our nation's capitol and marveled a little at the sight. This had been the first glimpse he ever had of the land he now calls home.

Even partially destroyed, the landscape still has its own morbid sense of beauty. Enough so that the Wanderer felt a slight hitch in his breath as he took in the sight, feeling once again like that scared nineteen year old who was forced to escape from the Vault so long ago.

Amid it all, the Washington Monument still stood defiantly and proud amongst all of the broken stone and rusted metal that makes up the wastes. A metaphor for humanity as a whole in his mind. Even though he couldn't see it, the Wanderer knew that at the top of the spire sat an old satellite dish from the old Virgo II lunar lander. A dish that emitted tales of hope and empowerment from the mouth of an eccentric radio jockey to the people of this desolate place. A voice that he personally ensured would continue fighting his good fight no matter what.

A fight that the Wanderer sometimes yearns to be a part of again.

As much as he tries to tell himself otherwise, the Lone Wanderer still cares about a great deal of things. The Capital Wasteland will forever be a part of him, much like the Vault he is standing in front of, and he wants to see it thrive. He wants the Muties eradicated, he wants closer relations between settlements for trade and protection, he wants the roads patrolled and maintained, DC cleared out and inhabited again, and a whole lot more.

At the end of the day, the Wanderer is James' son and he truly believes in his mother's verse. It's why he worked so hard to start the purifier and why he was hell bent on utterly destroying the Enclave. The wasteland is dying of thirst and he wants the waters of life to run freely. The Aqua Pura should just be a start. The Wanderer envisions more for his home but he strangely does nothing about it. Three Dog's continuous messages on fighting the Good Fight always reaches someplace within the Wanderer that he just can't turn off, but he doesn't lift a finger to propose anything. Knowing him, he probably just doesn't want the responsibility of doing it by himself anymore.

Because let's face it, if he were to take it upon himself to wholeheartedly tackle the remaining problems of the Wasteland, he would largely be doing it alone. It's how things have always worked in the past and the Wanderer did not believe anything would change. Yes, he's made friends that he could call on in times of need but the result would remain the same.

If we were to nitpick, the Lone Wanderer is an officially recognized Knight in the Brotherhood of Steel, an informal member of Riley's Rangers, and a full fledged Regulator. At the drop of a dime, he could have the might of the three most powerful groups still active in the Wasteland crashing down upon his foes in a manner of hours. But when it comes to the more domestic issues he wants solved, he cannot escape his own shadow. Whispers of his deeds - some true and most not - have reached all corners of the Wasteland and everyone thinks him to practically be the second coming of the Vault Dweller: a man so legendary that tales of his exploits have reached across the entire country from California to DC.

They all assume that all the Wanderer needs is a marker on his Pip-Boy and that he'd make whatever problem they had go away one way or another. He was the Lone Wanderer, the Capital Wasteland's simultaneous bane and guardian and there was nothing he couldn't do. Backup or help would only get in his way so it was beat not to send any. It was infuriating, but the sad part was...

They are all right.

All he DOES need is a few map markers, a general explanation of the situation and you could consider the task done. Backup DOES tend to just get in his way and the Wanderer works far better alone. Those tales that circulate around are all based in some form of the truth so he HAS done the vast majority of the things people say he has, it's just the details that are off. Truth be told, he is practically a walking God amongst men whether he knows it or not. But does that mean he has to like being pushed to shoulder the Wasteland's problems by himself? No, it doesn't. He wants the people of the Wasteland to rely on themselves and their own strength and not just him. Until they got that message, he wasn't doing shit to help them.

Of course, it isn't like the people of the Wasteland truly know this. No matter how hard he tries to explain, the Wanderer can never get the message across as clearly as I have. As I've said, words are not his strong suit so you may get overly emotional or vague explanations that is difficult to make complete sense of. In fact, the only two people who had ever understood him perfectly were either dead or hidden beneath two tons of rock and steel.

The Wanderer finally turns away from the nostalgic scene in front of him and moves to the wooden door leading the cavern that leads into the Vault proper. He doesn't really want to, but he simply cannot stop himself from reaching out and touching it. Dry and dusty, the thin wood gives easily at his touch and swings open on rusty hinges. It screeches and creaks with age and disuse but it opens cleanly enough to reveal the inky blackness of the cavern.

The Wanderer sighs and as he's done countless times before, he swallows his trepidation and makes his way through the door...and whatever reception may await him.


End file.
